


Hypothesis

by Marchling



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Iffy Scientific Facts, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:32:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marchling/pseuds/Marchling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now firmly in a relationship with John, Sherlock begins to form different ideas and rules to follow in order to achieve the most success possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hypothesis

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This incarnation of Sherlock Holmes belongs to a lot of different people, none of which are me!

Sherlock Holmes was, above all else, a man of science and deduction. He did not simply blurt things out or accept his first hypothesis as truth – he studied, he thought, he _observed_. He made the logical conclusions, but never were they truly concrete. All of his rules could, and often were, revised as new data became available. This was what made him the best, _only_ , consulting detective. 

It made absolutely no sense to him that he shouldn’t extend this behavior out to all aspects of his life – his new relationship with John included. 

He carefully cataloged John’s responses, words, actions… _everything_. John wasn’t necessarily a case he needed to crack, but he’d decided that his process of data gathering was key to his success in his work and thus it would be his success in being, what Mycroft took such perverse, unfounded glee in, _someone’s boyfriend_. Not just someone’s boyfriend, but _John’s_. 

Initially, as they awkwardly found themselves far from friends and well into something else without even realizing it, he’d been careful not to use such words. From what he’d observed about John and men in general, the appearance of masculinity was important. However, John had surprised him, not for the first time. Perhaps they weren’t sure of where they were going to end up, which concerned John more than Sherlock, but John wasn’t going to shy away from the journey, so to speak. Sherlock should not have been so surprised by John’s willingness to admit they were in some sort of romantic pairing (a relief to Sherlock, as this meant he didn’t need to put as much effort into keeping Sarah or any other determined suitor away) as he’d already been informed that _‘it’s all fine’_. It was after this first disproven hypothesis that he began truly keeping track of the important points to remember.

**Be careful of the shoulder, observant of the leg**

The chase was most definitely _on_. If he was ever going to figure out how traces of _encelia farinosa_ had ended up on a dead woman’s body when its main area of origin was southwestern United States and she had never been there in her life, then this possible witness was going to tell him. 

His prey was doing a respectable job of using the twists and turns of London to keep a good bit of distance between them, but this was not even the first time this week that he and John had been engaged thusly. They turned down the next alleyway with barely a skid. 

“I hope you’re keeping track of where we are,” John said, panting next to him. “Because I’m lost.” 

“Of course I am.” Sherlock returned, barely focusing on the street signs and landmarks they passed – but then, even this tiny bit of attention Sherlock’s brain was paying to geography was more than enough. “ _Aha!_ ” Sherlock almost crowed when the man ahead of them stumbled over some rubbish, giving him and John a precious moment to close more of the gap between them. 

Beside him, John laughed at his exalted cry and Sherlock, not for the first time on a case, forced himself not to think about it. The chase was paramount. 

It was likely this attempt to re-focus on the case and to push thoughts of John or even any awareness of him save for ensuring that he was keeping up away that, he would later reflect, was the cause of his admittedly foolish action. 

Their quarry made a rather sharp turn and Sherlock, now convinced that he knew the lay of the land better than his adversary did, made the abrupt mental recalibration that would allow them to shoot down a different side street and, if his calculations were correct, end up ahead of him. He hurled his body to the left and had to grab John to force him to do the same. 

Grab was perhaps the wrong word. If he was honest with himself, and he always was, he _yanked_ John to the side and almost didn’t hear his pained cry, focused as he was. 

Sherlock skidded to a halt as John bent over double, clutching his shoulder. “What? I haven’t pulled you so hard that you could be at risk for shoulder dislocation.” 

“Bad shoulder.” John said, voice tight with pain, “Twisted it the wrong way to turn.” 

Sherlock glanced back towards the road he’d intended to go down and realized almost immediately that if he didn’t run now, he’d miss the window of opportunity. With one glance at John, however, he knew he’d have to look for another opportunity. There was no possible way that he could leave John behind, even if it meant getting away from the sight of John hurting _because of him_. 

He stepped towards John, hand hesitantly reaching forward and awkwardly patting and rubbing his back. Whether this did anything to take the pain away, he wasn’t sure. Still, John seemed to relax under his touch. “I apologize.” 

“Not your intention, I realize.” John said, slowly righting himself. His face looked pinched with pain. “Go on, catch up with him.” He encouraged, nodding his head forward. 

“We should return to Baker Street and attend to your shoulder before it decides to… punish you, as it were.” Sherlock said instead. He didn’t pull impatiently at John’s arm like he ordinarily would have. Instead, he stood beside him, keeping a careful eye on John’s pallor. He was already pale and Sherlock was quite aware that many a man had been reduced to passing out or being sick over pain. 

The look John gave him was somewhere between bemused and disbelieving. “Sherlock… he’s going to get away.” 

“Yes, well, I’ll just find him again.” Sherlock answered, quite sure of this fact. “It wasn’t terribly difficult to do so in the first place, considering his rather unfortunate nickname.”

The nickname was actually Lavender, terribly feminine, and it had sent John into peals of giggles every time it was mentioned. That it failed to do so now was a bit of a disappointment to Sherlock. He enjoyed making John laugh when he was actively trying to do so. 

“I… I’m… Are you alright?” John asked at last. 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “I am fine. You are still clutching your shoulder, however.” 

“Well, it hurts.” John pointed out, completely unnecessarily. Pain was a likely cause of stating such a thing, so Sherlock let it slide without comment. 

“And so, we should return to Baker Street.” He said, this time using the hand on John’s back to try to propel him forward. 

John still looked confused, “If you feel bad for yanking my shoulder, don’t, okay? I can head back to the flat and you can try and catch up.” 

“He’s long gone by now.” Sherlock asserted, “And I do not think I need to point out that I am the direct cause of your previous injury giving you trouble now.” He said, fully aware that by ‘not pointing it out’ he was effectively pointing it out. Sometimes, it _did_ make sense to state the obvious, if only to ensure that he and John were on the same page. 

John’s tight smile made Sherlock feel worse, if it were possible. “You didn’t mean to, it’s fine. You can’t be aware of my shoulder all the time, it would slow us down.” 

Sherlock did not return the smile. He could be aware of upwards of a hundred things at once (he’d tested it) and John’s injuries and at least general wellbeing should be one of them. “Baker Street?” 

Rolling his eyes, John obligingly shuffled forward.

**\-------------**

“You’re limping.”

John’s walk from the door to the kitchen was rather abruptly stopped. He turned, a little more annoyed than he might have normally been by such an observation. “Just because I didn’t get shot there doesn’t mean that there wasn’t an injury, I told you that.” 

Sherlock nodded and agreed “A nasty break, yes, I remember.”, all at once taking in the weather outside (persistent cold drizzle, encroaching fog, prevailing dampness), the state of John’s clothes (wet, clearly spent a long time walking in the rain – after having slipped enough money in his wallet this morning for a cab, he shouldn’t have walked home unless by choice – a choice usually made to clear his head), his expression (not angry… tense and disappointed – something had to have happened as he was not in such a mood that morning) and the way that he angrily shoved his cell phone into the pocket of his jacket as he’d come upstairs (not himself, Mycroft doesn’t induce anger but rather a mix of exasperation and honest fear, Lestrade doesn’t contact John, he has few friends, he and Sarah had made peace… Harry is the only option) and decided not to beat around the bush. “How is Harry?” 

John, who had started walking again towards the refrigerator after Sherlock had admitted that the limp hadn’t started out psychosomatic, abruptly stopped once again. “I don’t even want to hear your thought process.” 

“So I’m right?” Sherlock said, trying not to preen. He liked being right, as John well knew, though this deduction was rather child’s play. Still, now was clearly not the time to try and wheedle John into saying that he was amazing again. 

“Of course you’re bloody well right. Are you ever not?” John grumbled. He, finally, made it to the refrigerator, opened it, and groaned. “Sherlock, how many times do I need to go over the ‘science shelf’ concept with you?” 

Sherlock stood and walked to John. He did, of course, remember that John wanted him to keep his experiments to specific shelves. At the time, he’d just shoved whatever he needed to into the fridge without a thought, however. This illustrated yet another reason why John was the only one for him. How many partners, of either gender, would allow him to keep putting admittedly noxious experiments in the direct path of food, if only he could keep it to the correct, clearly labeled, shelf? Nearly none, though that was an educated guess rather than a result of empirical study. 

“I apologize.” Sherlock said quietly, dropping his head down onto the back of John’s neck. 

The fight seemed to leave John, which was exactly what Sherlock had been hoping for. He sighed, “I don’t see how my limping leads you to a row with Harry.”  
Misdirection, blatantly so, but Sherlock didn’t mind. “It is true that your leg is affected by the weather, but it’s also affected by how you feel. Harry was the logical choice.” 

John leaned back against Sherlock, letting his lover take some of his weight. Sherlock did so without a thought. “I don’t want to talk.”

And so, Sherlock was silent.

**War, battle and other such political strife are topics to be broached only by him**

“Ghastly business in Iraq,” Mycroft said, flipping through the pages of a newspaper. “No way around it, I suppose.”

Had Sherlock been paying more attention to John and less to glaring at Mycroft in the hopes that he would leave them in the pretense of privacy, he might have noticed the way that John’s shoulders tensed. Mycroft, reading the newspaper, likely didn’t either. 

“What are your thoughts, John?” Mycroft asked pleasantly. It was one of his best tactics, to engage John in conversation, casually working his way to the matters at hand. John was always more receptive to talking and could be counted on to encourage Sherlock later. This visit was a bit more social in nature than his usual ones, he obviously had no task for Sherlock or he would have opened with it. No, this was likely a ‘social call’ for him to determine the general state of affairs himself, rather than reading the reports of individuals less likely to grasp the situation than Mycroft. 

“Suicide mission. Not worth it.” He said, shortly, ruffling his own portion of the paper. Gossip pages, no doubt. Mrs. Hudson was ruining him. 

Mycroft made some sort of noise that might have been agreement and might have been simple acknowledgement, he did tend to like forcing his conversational partners to guess. “Poorly organized, but then I have seen worse.”

“Worse?” John said incredulously. It was the tone that tipped Sherlock off. Clearly, John had quite a lot of thoughts on the issue and Sherlock would bet his reputation that there were faces of soldiers that he’d been unable to save flashing through his lover’s mind. Though John was rather good at hiding distress, Sherlock did hate when he didn’t notice. John certainly wasn’t hiding anything by then, however. 

John’s eyes were practically blazing, “New recruits, completely untested, vague orders, no superior officers on the scene, no one to tend to the situation if it went south, like they probably knew it would. How could they send out a bunch of boys to be killed without anyone there who truly knew what they were doing?” 

Mycroft didn’t outwardly move, he still looked down at the paper held in his hands, but his entire demeanor had shifted. He too had noticed the dangerous territory that he’d strayed into. “Perhaps they thought the gain would be worth the price.”

Sneering, John answered, “If it was, then they would have sent in more experienced soldiers. No, this was a hail-Mary for nothing too important.”

“They won’t spin it that way.” Mycroft said. It was clearly the wrong thing to say.

John’s chair scraped back and his paper was thrown on the floor. “Too bad they weren’t there to _spin it_ for the soldiers while they died in agony, yeah?” 

He was out the door and down the stairs before Mycroft could even blink. The door to Baker Street closed quietly, not slammed, and that was probably not a good thing. For a long moment, neither Sherlock nor Mycroft moved. 

“You did that on purpose.” Sherlock accused. 

Mycroft looked him in the eye. “I did not.” He said quietly.

Sherlock stood and headed for the door, “You will not do it again.”

**Minute gestures reap rewards**

Prior to John, one of Sherlock’s ideas of love involved sweeping gestures and multiple, frequent romantic overtures - it was yet another reason why he had long ago decided that his lack of interest in romance was for the best. He could not constantly put his work behind someone else, couldn’t imagine having to be constantly in love and couldn’t imagine diverting his mental focus from real issues to coming up with something to please his partner.

When John had kissed him and he’d realized, later, that he had absolutely no intention of letting that be the end of it, he had briefly been concerned about this before telling himself not to think on it at all. If John did really want some sort of connection with him that went beyond the friendship that they’d stopped pretending wasn’t there, then he could very well deal with it or choose to end things. 

It quickly became apparent that this was not a problem for John. It should have not been a surprise to Sherlock, as John didn’t really seem the man to find nauseating and trivial reinforcements appealing. Instead of some huge declaration of love to the entirety of the Scotland Yard (out of the question), John seemed rather pleased when Sherlock cut off Anderson’s rather haphazard but professional theories at a crime scene to ask John for his impressions over Anderson’s _expertise_. This had not been intended to be some sort of favoritism (though he did rather heavily favor John over Anderson, but then he favored amoeba over Anderson so it was hardly a fair comparison), but rather to annoy Anderson. John, however, had been rather touched by it, if their foray into the alley afterwards had been any sort of indication. 

Later, this had lead Sherlock to reshape his idea about gestures towards one’s partner while in love – especially in regards to John and himself. 

John didn’t need his name being written in the sky in what had to be a selfish contribution to pollution in London, he had, however, been delighted when Sherlock had cleaned the blackened powder from the carpet after one of his experiments had gone exactly the way he’d hoped it would without being asked and in a timely manner. 

He was perfectly happy with chasing criminals through the seedy underbelly of London, as opposed to a slow, boring stroll along the seaside, hand in hand. When Sherlock had given his gloves to John during a fact-finding journey when the other man had seemed cold, John had grinned at him like gloves were an ‘I love you’ even though it had been, in Sherlock’s eyes, a rather small sacrifice on his part. 

The only real requirement faced by both Sherlock and John and other couples was the inevitable dealing with the in-laws. John had already proved masterful at dealing with Mycroft, understanding not to take him at face value at anytime while simultaneously remaining as good-humored about the fact that he would likely be under some level of surveillance for the rest of his natural life as one could be. On Sherlock’s part, during a post-coitus nap of John’s, he had fielded drunken texts from Harry Watson. It had been made completely worth his time in ways he had not even anticipated. 

This had, strangely, endeared John’s sister to him in ways that she should and would never completely comprehend. 

Acts that were so slightly out of his way, done with long intervals in between, still seem to keep John happy despite the fact that others would find these gestures too minute to even be seen let alone counted.

Sherlock often decried John’s lack of observational skill, but he would readily admit that John was observant in all the ways that were truly worth it.

**Do not ‘plot circles’ or ‘manipulate the situation’**

“This was a delicate situation. I needed absolute control in order to access the data needed. Besides, your impressions at the museum were…”

“Amusing?”

“No, John, I was merely trying to say…”

“That having your slow little sidekick along for the showdown would have been a monumentally bad idea, so you _lied_ and sent him along some errand by _lying_?”

“You mentioned lying twice, but that is not what I was attempting to do.”

“So when you told me that you absolutely needed to check out the guard rotation and layout of the exhibit at the museum, but really didn’t because you had done so three days ago, that was the truth?” 

“… John… I…”

“Lied, Sherlock. That is the word that you’re trying to grasp for, isn’t it?” 

“I did not explicitly state that…”

“No, you did worse!”

“Worse?”

“You worded everything to make me think that you didn’t really want to ask it of me, but that you did need it. Don’t you dare tell me that you didn’t think I would think I was doing you some kind favor! You completely manipulated me to make me do what you wanted!”

“I merely suggested…”

“You manipulated me.” 

“Perhaps.”

“There is no _perhaps_ about it, you great bloody fool!

“John, I thought of none of this in these terms, I assure you.” 

“Not making it better, Sherlock.” 

“Are you not the one that believes that the intention is sometimes more important than the action? For instance, when I intended to complete the laundry to even Mrs. Hudson’s exacting standards but shrunk the bed sheets so that they no longer fit on the bed, you were pleased all the same.”

“Yes, but…”

“Or, when I offered to slip Donovan a very mild dose of sildenafil citrate to distort colors in her vision, entirely harmless and temporary, when she insulted you during the Walker case, you assured me that you found the thought to be comforting enough.”

“I hardly thought that making her think she was going insane because suddenly everything was tinted blue was an appropriate response.”

“Which you explained at the time, John, but you also said that you appreciated my wanting to ‘defend your honor’ as it were.”

“Well, yes,”

“And so, with the situation as delicate as it was, is it wrong that I wanted to protect you from it, especially when I was confident that, alone, I could emerge the victor.”

“You lied and,”

“And so, had I told you the truth, you’re saying that you would have gone along with my plan?”

“Of course not!”

“Well, then you can hardly blame me for…”

“Plotting circles around me?” 

“I would not use those terms, but yes. I know you are my back-up until the end, but in this you could not be present. If I have to manipulate to solve a case whist simultaneously keeping you safe, then… omphf…”

…

…

“Well, John, I don’t believe you’ve ever decided to end an argument with kissing. I admit I find the tactic worthwhile.”

“I get it, alright? But, Sherlock…”

“Yes?” 

“Don’t lie. Don’t plot things to get me to act the way you want. Just talk to me, okay?” 

“Yes, John.”

**Do not underestimate**

Even as Sherlock’s mind wrapped around the possibilities, he knew what option he was going to take. It was the only way he could blend in as insignificant background in the club, hide his face and leave his eyes free to observe all at the same time. Had John been beside him, he could have used him as part of the distraction. Had John not been in the building, he wouldn’t have hesitated.

As it was, randomly kissing the drunk blonde walking passed him at the precise moment the man he was following turned and looked his way before pulling the envelope that Lestrade’s case needed back out of his pocket was the only option available to him. 

John saw him, of course he did. Sherlock didn’t bother looking at John, but he could feel the other man’s eyes on him for the entirety of the kiss - pathetic, sloppy and not nearly as good as even the worst kiss he’d ever shared with John as it had been. 

Sherlock had counted himself lucky when John hadn’t said anything right then and there, had confronted their mark and retrieved the envelope as if nothing had happened. John was, even while angry and undoubtedly disgusted with him, abiding to the rules of the work as Sherlock had laid them out. With the case solved, however, they were once again Sherlock and John, exclusive lovers. Or at least, they were until John got the door closed. 

Before his lover could say anything, Sherlock held out his hands, “I know you are angry. I know you feel betrayed.” 

John narrowed his eyes. “And you know this how, exactly?” 

“As I have observed, that is how all lovers would feel having watched their partner kiss someone else.” Sherlock said, before dropping his voice to an undertone, “It is how I would feel if I saw the same from you.” 

“Even if I was doing it for a quick disguise?” John asked, folding his arms over his chest. 

Sherlock didn’t hesitate, “I would understand, but I wouldn’t be happy. I admit that I don’t like the thought of you kissing someone else, but there are circumstances where I would… _cope_.”

Slowly, John took a step forward. “And what would you do afterwards?”

“I would expect you to make your case.” Sherlock said. “I would listen. I would attempt to let it go, even if the sight didn’t leave my memory for a long while.” 

“Delete it.” John quipped. Sobering up, the small smile dropped from his face, “And you expect that this is only how you would operate?” 

That brought Sherlock up a little short, “You know that you are the only one I will ever love. There is no one else. There wouldn’t be.”

“And what, you don’t trust me to feel the same?” John asked, sounding more troubled now than he did before. 

“John, I meant that quite literally. That I love you, that I am attracted to you at all, is quite remarkable. I haven’t felt anything even remotely close to this for anyone. I never thought I would. You however…” He trailed off, but the implicated of John’s previous dates and relationship, previous _options_ , was in the air between them. 

There were quite a few things that Sherlock’s brain was subbing in as John’s response to this. Perhaps a acknowledgement of other partners, maybe even throwing reuniting with them in Sherlock’s face to hurt as he had been hurt, but whatever he had thought up, getting thoroughly kissed wasn’t what he expected. 

Without separating, John pushed Sherlock backwards until he had to fall into the chair behind him. John was immediately straddling his thighs, kissing him hard and fisting his hand through Sherlock’s hair. Just as abruptly as he had started the kiss, John broke it off, leaving Sherlock gasping for air and completely thrown off guard. 

“You think I could go back to some normal person for some quiet little life after I’ve been with you? You think I ever felt anything for anyone else like I feel for you? Just because I’ve been in love before doesn’t mean it compares to now. It _doesn’t_ , Sherlock.” John said, breathing heavily. 

As if he hadn’t just been roughly erasing the feel of someone else’s lips on Sherlock’s a moment before, John tilted his head forward and gently pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s. “I’m not mad you kissed her. I know you love me, I know blonde bimbo isn’t your type. I trust you.”

Sherlock was glad when John kissed him again, because he wasn’t sure what to say. He’d spent the entire taxi ride over thinking up things to say to make John stay, to make him listen and understand that it hadn’t even been a kiss to Sherlock, just a disguise. That John understood and accepted it baffled his mind. 

But then, it always was when Sherlock was completely convinced that John would react one way that his lover would turn the tables on him. It never paid to underestimate John. It was that pleasant, somewhat unfamiliar, feeling of surprise that made Sherlock love John all the more.

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note: Sildenafil citrate is a real drug and you have definitely heard of it. Or rather, you would have heard of it if I had used its common name of Viagra! I was looking up strange drugs to put in that section of the story, and found that Viagra can give users ‘blue vision’ and make it difficult to see the difference between blue and green. I thought it was too funny to pass up, even though it’s a side effect for more chronic use (or at least I think it is) and it’s highly unlikely that it would work out the way that Sherlock is saying it would. If there are any doctors reading who are shaking their heads in dismay because of it, then I apologize. Artistic license and all that!


End file.
